


oh captain, my captain

by griffenly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffenly/pseuds/griffenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See, it happened a bit like this.</p><p>First there were six, and then there were seven, and then their numbers dwindled again. But more on that later.</p><p>Their story was one that was meant for the history books, one to be scribbled down by their idolizers and their successors, one that would be whispered through the halls of Ark Preparatory School for years to come. </p><p>(Mr. Jaha would not be pleased, of course, but he was very rarely pleased with many things.) </p><p>See, it happened a bit like this.</p><p>or, the Dead Poets Society AU no one asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

See, it happened a bit like this.

First there were six, and then there were seven, and then their numbers dwindled again. But more on that later.

Their story was one that was meant for the history books, one to be scribbled down by their idolizers and their successors, one that would be whispered through the halls of Ark Preparatory School for years to come.

(Mr. Jaha would not be pleased, of course, but he was very rarely pleased with many things.)

See, it happened a bit like this.

* * *

 

There was always a processional. It was _tradition_ , you know, to carry in the flags with the bagpipes blaring and determinedly straight expressions plastered to all the boys faces. It was all very _dignified_ , and if Bellamy wasn’t worried about Mr. Jaha jumping down his throat, he would probably laugh at the insanity of the whole ordeal. But he was one of the flag bearers this year - _an honor and a privilege_ , as Mr. Jaha had pointedly told all the boys - and so he looked at Miller and allowed himself a roll of the eyes before the bagpipes lit up and he was forced to enter that goddamned cavern of an auditorium.

There were parents everywhere, with those silly, wide grins smeared across their faces - _look at my boy! oh, yes, we’re so very proud_ \- and Bellamy forced himself to stare straight ahead, at the crest just behind Mr. Jaha’s head. He and the other boys filed in slowly, surely, and just as the bagpipes died down they took their seats. Mr. Jaha came to the front, smiling placidly at the people before him in a manner that always struck Bellamy as faintly creepy.

“Welcome, welcome,” he called, and his voice echoed across the auditorium, reverberating through the ancient halls, “to another year of Ark Preparatory School!” There were polite claps, and Bellamy caught Murphy huffing a poorly-concealed snort at the other end of the pew. “We are thrilled to have you all back this year. In addition, we have added a new member to our staff. Mr. Marcus Kane will be filling in as the English professor for Mrs. Abby Griffin, who has taken a leave of absence this year due to personal reasons.” Bellamy looked at Miller, who raised his eyebrows suggestively and shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Kane stood and nodded to the people in the audience, smiling a bit wanly at the applause of the parents and children sitting in front of him.

“Thank you, Mr. Kane.” Mr. Jaha fixed the crowd with a serious expression. “This year, as with all years, great things are expected of the young people here today.” A pause for dramatic effect. Bellamy rolled his eyes.

“Does he have this thing fucking _scripted_?” Miller whispered.

Bellamy repressed a snort, because, not the time.

“We hope to see these boys thrive and flourish as we begin this school year. Thank you,” he concluded, and with that, uproarious applause resounded from the parents, and the new school year had begun.

* * *

 

He was stuck with the new kid this year.

And, okay, Bellamy didn’t _mind_ necessarily, it’s just that out of everyone - Miller and Murphy and Monty, and, _fuck_ , even _Finn_ \- he hadn’t wound up with one of his friends. But when Lincoln introduced himself, all terse words and stoic expression, he did feel a little bad for the kid, because it was hard, coming to Ark so late. Ark was hellish in general, but being thrust into the midst of the underworld during the tenth grade? It fucking _sucked_.

He started up a conversation as they made their way to the dormitories, and it was only then that realized he recognized the name. (Or the face. _Honestly_ , there just weren’t very many boys at this school who looked like thirty-five year old men at age sixteen.)

“You’re Indra’s brother?”

A gruff nod.

Bellamy barked out a short laugh, because, _fuck_ , this poor kid’s life just wasn’t getting any easier. Indra had been the only girl ever accepted into Ark Prep, and that had been when Mr. Griffin was in charge, way back when. Her acceptance had been the majority of the reason of why he had _stepped down_ , or, in less politically correct terms, _been tossed from the premises immediately_. She had fucking _decimated_ the boys, though, in every aspect, and had wound up valedictorian, much to the chagrin of the remainder of the faculty. Needless to say, Mr. Jaha was much less lenient on the whole _bring girls to Ark Prep_ policy. “Welcome to hell, then,” he said with a cocky grin, and if Lincoln’s grimace was anything to go by, he understood precisely what Bellamy meant.

* * *

 

The boys congregated in Bellamy’s room, as they always did.

Murphy burst into the room with little preamble. Miller, Jasper, and finally Monty filed in after him. “Monty, door,” he ordered drolly, as he collapsed onto Bellamy’s bed, and Monty rolled his eyes as he obliged.

“So, Blake, the boys here were thinking of a study session tonight - you think you can spare some time for those of us who _don’t_ find Latin inherently interesting?” Murphy asked with a slight smirk, and Jasper lit a blunt in the corner, smothering his laugh. Bellamy whacked Murphy upside the head, but grinned nevertheless.

“Only if Monty can help me with some of the chem work.”

Monty nodded exuberantly. “Deal.”

“Oh, and uh, I think Finn may be tagging along too,” Miller murmured, and Bellamy glared at Murphy, as though he was personally responsible for Finn’s presence at their study session.

“What?” Murphy asked, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“He’s _your_ roommate.”

“That is _not_ my fault.”

Jasper passed the blunt around, giving each boy a hit before it came back to him, and he sighed happily. “Ah, to be back within the homey walls of Ark.”

Monty let out a giggle that had Miller grinning like an idiot, although the other boys pretended not to notice, lest Miller turn that grin into one of his scathing glares.

“Hey, Lincoln, you’re welcome to join us,” Bellamy offered instead, and the other boy gave him a tentative smile. Bellamy nodded at him once, taking the blunt as it was once again passed to him, and taking a long inhale.

“Well, boys,” he muttered, handing off the blunt, “it begins again.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first day of hell went a bit like this:

Early morning wake up call featuring an inordinate amount of yelling and a chorus of groans from all of the boys on the hall, followed by a frenzy of showering and rushing down to breakfast. From there, the great hall released into trigonometry, then on to Latin (which nearly everyone slept through, except Bellamy, of course), then to history. There was a brief break in which the boys were granted the opportunity to grab a bite to eat before running off to chemistry.

And then, four textbooks heavier and with brains that felt like sawdust, Bellamy and the other boys found themselves stumbling into Professor Kane’s English class.

And it was _empty_.

The bell rang very promptly, and the boys scampered into some seats, awaiting the arrival of the mysterious new professor while still talking boisterously.

There was whistling coming from the door, and the boys silenced immediately. Professor Kane didn’t speak, merely kept his hands clasped behind his back as he moved towards his desk, whistling all the way out of the _fucking_ room.

The boys all turned to each other, Miller staring open-mouthed at Bellamy and Murphy smirking, until Kane returned with a lopsided smile and said, “Well, come on!” With great trepidation, the boys turned to stare at one another, their faces betraying their utmost confusion, and slowly they stood and gathered their text book, hastening out after their long-gone professor.

They found themselves in one of the corridors, the one lined with glass cases full of lighted pictures, of the boys gone by, of the far-off times, of the men that had left and survived the hell of Ark Prep. (They were inspirational in that they had achieved that, at least.) Kane stopped in front of one of the cases, smiling placidly at the boys, and it was fucking unnerving as hell.

“Oh captain, my captain,” he said, and his voice took on a whole new tone, one filled with awe and reverence. “Who knows what that comes from?”

Dead silence. Kane seemed to suppress a laugh.

“It’s from a poem by Walt Whitman,” he continued, “about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now in this class, you can either call me Mr. Kane, or - if you’re slightly more daring - oh captain, my captain.” Bellamy cracked a grin, and he even caught Murphy’s eye as he smirked a bit wider in the corner. Miller was eyeing the man curiously, as though trying to unravel the enigma around him, and Monty was straight up _giddy_.

Mr. Kane had Jasper read an excerpt from a poem called _To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time_ (which had half the class snickering, because, well, _teenage boys_ ), and Mr. Kane thanked him with a smile and said, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. The Latin sentiment for that is _carpe diem_. Does anyone know what that means?”

Bellamy raised his hand a bit awkwardly. Kane nodded in his direction.

“Yes, Mr...?”

“Blake, sir. Carpe diem. Seize the day.”

“ _Seize_ the day. Gather ye rosebuds while ye _may_. Why does the writer use these lines?”

Murphy, leaning back against the wall, called out, “Cause he’s in a hurry!”

A few boys laughed, and Kane replied, “That’d be a no, but thanks for trying.” More snickers. “Seize the day. Because we are food for worms, lads. Everyone in this room, one day, will stop breathing, turn cold, and die.” Silence. “Step forward here, and peruse the faces from the past.” The boys followed Kane up to the glass-enclosed pictures, at the black and white images of those that had come before them. The pavers of their futures, the pedestals upon which the boys’ feet were straggling for purchase.

“Listen to their legacy to you,” Kane whispered. The boys leant in to the glass, and a faint murmur traveled across them - _carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary_. Bellamy was entranced, his eyes seeking out the dark irises of the boys in the pictures, tracing their faces into his memory as though they would somehow be able to teach him about the mysteries of the world, about how to survive this hell and escape it unscathed. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and when he glanced back at Kane, the older man was smiling softly at his pupils.

And that was class.

They left the room in a daze, with Jasper muttering, “That was _weird_.”

Bellamy hummed in thought. “Weird,” he agreed quietly, “but different.”

* * *

 

That night, in the showers, the boys were trying to organize a study group for trig, because _apparently_ Mr. Miller (Nathan’s father, which the boys teased him about _relentlessly_ ) was hell-bent on making them drown in workbook sets for the rest of their miserable lives. Monty called out to Bellamy, asking if he would join, and Bellamy groaned.

“Can’t, sorry,” he said with a grimace. “I have dinner at the Griffins tonight.”

The responses varied.

“As in _Abby and Jake_ Griffin?”

“Whoa, how’d you manage that?”

“Anything beats the Ark food, _honestly_.”

Bellamy shrugged. “Yes,” he answered to the first.

“Mr. Griffin asked me to come forever ago, before he stepped down, and this was just the first time an offer was formally extended. Figured it’d be good to get involved, you know,” he said to the second.

“ _Fucking right_ it does,” he agreed with the third.

And that’s the way it went.

Nothing spectacular. Nothing life-altering. 

The other boys ran off to start their trig, while Lincoln hung back in their room ("I have some chemistry to do," he said, and although Bellamy could spot the lie from a mile away, he let it be.) 

And Bellamy went to the Griffins'. 

* * *

 

When Bellamy knocked on the door to the Griffins’ ( _exceedingly_ and _unnecessarily_ large home), he was expecting a myriad of things. He was expecting boring, relentless small talk about his family and his future. He was expecting to put his overly-charmed smile and fake laugh into very good use. He was expecting to get some useful insight into how to best approach the remaining few years he had at Ark Prep.

What he was not expecting was a fucking _goddess_ to answer the door.

His mouth quite literally fell open, and he had trouble finding words - _Bellamy Blake_ , the man of “motivational speeches,” as his friends often complained, _had trouble finding words_ \- and he was just drinking her in in her entirety, all that blonde, curling hair and the eyes that were so fucking _blue_ he thought he might drown in them.

And then she smiled at him, and, _Jesus_ , he was done. Finished. Gone.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, and there was a slight edge to her voice, and Bellamy suddenly noticed she was incredibly tense, and that the smile was falling a bit at the corners.

“Hi, uh, yeah - Mrs. Griffin?” he stammered.

At this, he earned a genuine laugh, her head thrown back a bit as she managed to say, “ _No_ ,” and suddenly the _actual_ Mrs. Griffin was at the door, thanking the girl (Clarke, he thought he heard her say) quietly as she ushered Bellamy in.

“Clarke? Where are you?” a voice from upstairs called, and the girl rolled her eyes and half-sprinted up the staircase, shouting back, “I’m _coming_!”

Bellamy watched her go, his head tracing her movements until she passed the banister and slipped into one of the rooms, another laugh tearing itself from her lips.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Griffin apologized, giving Bellamy a warm smile and guiding him into the living room, “that was just my daughter, Clarke.”

 _Daughter_? Oh, he was so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm basically combining Bellamy into this Neil/Knox character bECAUSE I WILL FIND A WAY TO MAKE EVERY DAMN THING BELLARKE-CENTRIC. DON'T EVEN TEST ME. 
> 
> But, yeah, hope you enjoyed - please send me your thoughts, either here or on tumblr! (griffenly.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

Bellamy returned from the dinner at nine, and he slumped into the great hall, where Monty and Jasper were tinkering with a radio in the corner, and Miller, Finn, and Murphy were attempting to do the trig work. (Which meant, of course, Finn was attempting to explain something and was _very_ confused about why the other two weren’t understanding.) Murphy grinned cheekily at Bellamy as he collapsed into the one empty seat at the table and asked, “How was dinner?”

“ _Awful_ ,” he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. (And it had been. The whole ordeal. Sitting across from her, all that bright, golden hair, and the smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. He’d tried to make her laugh a few times, and had succeeded on one particularly embarrassing occasion, which had earned him a disappointed glare from Mrs. Griffin.)

(But it had been worth it, for that one moment.)

“Why was it so bad?” Miller asked, sounding genuinely concerned, and, _fuck_ , he was grateful for that kid.

“Tonight,” he said, and Murphy smirked at Bellamy’s slightly-awed tone, “I met the most _beautiful_ girl I have _ever_ seen.”

“Are you kidding?” Jasper asked, smiling a bit crookedly. “What the hell is wrong with that?”

“ _Because_ ,” he groaned, and, honestly, it was the worst case scenario, “she’s practically engaged. To Wells. _Jaha_.”

The boys sighed sympathetically, Monty patting his back awkwardly and even Murphy offering him a more kind version of his trademark smirk. “That’s too bad.”

Yeah. Too _fucking_ bad indeed.

And then Finn goes, “That really sucks, man. But hey, can you look at this trig problem, we -”

“I can’t think about _trig_ right now, Collins,” he said in disgust, and he was saved from further comment by one of the room advisors bursting into the room, ordering the boys to bed.

As Bellamy left, he heard the older man ask, “That wouldn’t be a radio, would it boys?”

Monty and Jasper responded in unison, “No, sir. Science project.”

Bellamy repressed a grin.

(That night, he dreamt of blonde hair and a curling smile and eyes the color of the ocean, and Bellamy was really, truly _fucked_.)

* * *

 

 

The next day, Mr. Kane began the class by instructing the boys to open their textbooks to the introduction, written by one J. Evans Pritchard, PhD. As Miller read, Mr. Kane followed along, drawing the graph described (it was a _fucking bar graph_ to depict the quality of poetry, what the _fuck_ ) and Bellamy contained his snort as Finn scrambled for a ruler to try and copy Mr. Kane’s diagram.

When Miller finished, Kane smiled thoughtfully, and promptly stated, “Excrement.”

The boys stared.

Blinked.

(Based on Monty’s face, he was wondering whether or not the man had lost his mind.)

“That’s what I think of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard, PhD.”

Jasper looked at Monty, and Murphy cocked an eyebrow in the back, and Finn dropped his pencil and looked as though he had seen a fucking _ghost_ , and Miller glanced sideways at Bellamy, and they all knew instantly they were all thinking the same thing.

_Is this a trick?_

Kane continued, “I want you to rip out that page.”

Monty’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Bellamy thought Finn might have been choking. Murphy was fucking _giddy_ in the back.

 _Okay, maybe the guy_ has _lost his mind._

“C’mon,” he urged, the smile growing into a full-on grin, “rip it out!”

A hesitance permeated the group, the fear of disrespect that had been ingrained into the very marrow of their bones, the _do good be good_ attitude that had been shoved down their throats for so long.

(Although, there always had been _one_ who didn’t quite fit that mold.)

There was a ripping sound from the back.

All the heads turned towards Murphy, who held the first page aloft like a trophy, a wide grin stretching across his face, and Mr. Kane seemed to bite back a laugh. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy,” he said as he turned to the remainder of the boys. “C’mon, the rest of you!”

There was ripping all around - tearing it to smithereens, shredding that abomination of a work ( _this is a battle, a war,_ Mr. Kane cried, _and the casualties may be your hearts and souls_ ). Finn looked a bit lost, his eyes wide and his mouth agape, and Bellamy shoved his shoulder ( _“Rip, Collins, rip!”_ ). Kane passed around a trash can, Murphy throwing it like a basketball and bouncing it off the side of the rim. Lincoln looked uncomfortable, but there was a hesitant smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, as though he wasn’t sure if he was _allowed_ to be enjoying this, _allowed_ to be carefree. Monty and Jasper were having a fucking _field day_ with it, attacking each other relentlessly with balls of the now-forgotten J. Evans Pritchard, PhD.

“No matter what anyone tells you,” Kane called over the boys’ laughs, “words and ideas _can_ change the world. And I know what some of you are thinking - that studying poetry has nothing to do with going to business school or medical school - _I see you_ , Mr. Jordan - but I have a secret for you.”

Kane ordered the boys to huddle up, moving to the center of the desks and allowing the boys to circle around him. He was like the flame at the center of a candle, casting light onto those around him, a glowing ember amongst the dying fire of learning. His voice was quiet, and yet it seemed to Bellamy that it echoed throughout the corridor, the school, the entire fucking _countryside_. It seemed as though his words were tattooing themselves into his flesh, inking a permanent, impermeable reminder about what was _real_ and _beautiful_ and oh, so _important_.

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion.” He paused, taking a moment to peruse the gaping faces of the boys before him. He continued on, “And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive _for_. To quote from Whitman, ‘O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?’” At this, he smiled, a light, beautiful thing, and Bellamy swore this is what it felt like, to be in church. This is what it felt like to have something move you so deep in your soul you could _feel_ it. Kane said, his voice barely above a murmur, “Answer. That you are _here_ \- that life _exists_ , and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play _goes on_ and _you_ may contribute a verse.”

He stared at the boys, fixing them with a look that was neither threatening nor loose, but merely there. A look that told them that he wanted them to succeed, wanted them to hear what he was saying and emblazon it onto their brains, forever.

“What will your verse be?”

* * *

 

At dinner that night, Bellamy collapsed at the table where the other boys were already sitting, holding a red leather-bound book. “I found his school annual,” he said a bit breathlessly, handing it over to Finn who sat in front of him, and the boys all bowed their heads together, reading it quickly.

“Captain of the soccer team, editor of the school annual,” Finn read dutifully, smile playing at his lips.

“Man Most Likely to Do Anything,” Jasper said at a laugh, pointing to his superlative.

“Thigh Man,” Murphy read a bit incredulously, snorting a bit at the subtly inserted joke, “Mr. K was a _hell raiser_.”

“And Dead Poets Society,” Bellamy added, taking a bite of his food.

“What’s the Dead Poets Society?” Lincoln asked curiously, peering over Finn’s shoulder to analyze Mr. Kane’s school picture.

“Is there a picture in the annual?” Monty asked.

“I don’t know,” Bellamy said, shrugging, “there’s no other mention of it.”

And then a teacher called to one of the boys near their little circle, and Finn promptly hid the annual beneath his chair, and they ate their meal without another mention of the mysterious Dead Poets Society.

* * *

 

When the bell rang to release them from dinner, the boys sprinted outside (they were granted free time after dinner - thank _god_ , otherwise it would be a lot more hellish than usual), following Mr. Kane, who was whistling again with his hands in his pockets, meandering the grounds. “Mr. Kane!” Bellamy called after him, the boys trailing their leader dutifully. “Mr. Kane!” When he still didn’t respond, Bellamy cleared his throat, and a bit uncertainly asked, “Oh captain, my captain?” Mr. Kane promptly stopped and turned, flashing the boys a cheeky grin, and they all laughed.

“What can I do for you, boys?”

“We were just looking in your old annual -” Bellamy began, but Mr. Kane snatched it from his fingers, a dopey smile on his face as he murmured something close to oh my God. He kneeled down, flipping through the pages and laughing a bit, and Bellamy looked around at the others with a bit of apprehension. And then he knelt down beside Mr. Kane, clearing his throat again and asked, “We were just wondering... what’s the Dead Poets Society?”

Mr. Kane laughed a bit. “I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon me encouraging that,” he said.

“Why?” Bellamy asked, intrigued. “What was it?” Kane paused, gesturing for the others to join him close to the ground.

“The Dead Poets... we would gather at the old Indian cave, and take turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley - the biggies - even some of our own verse. And we would let it work its magic.” He sounded faraway, as though he were still trapped in that long-forgotten time, and it made the boys smile a bit wistfully, with him.

“Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created, gentlemen,” he said, and the boys smiled in varying degrees of thought. “Not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?” He stood, brushing off his pants. “Thank you, boys, for this stroll down memory lane.” And then he walked away again, whistling once more.

“Dead Poets Society,” Bellamy murmured.

And he had a plan.

“Dead Poets Society,” he repeated, louder. “Tonight. We’re _going_. Everyone in?”

Murphy grinned. “Of course I’m in.”

“I don’t know, guys...” Finn said.

“Then don’t come,” Murphy retorted coldly.

“Do you know how many demerits we’re talking, Murphy?”

“Then _seriously_ , don’t come,” he replied with a lifted eyebrow.

Jasper looked nervous, began walking away at the ringing of the bell.

“C’mon, Jasper, it’ll be fun,” Murphy tried.

“His grades are hurting,” Monty supplied as the boys all hastened onwards.

“So you’ll _help_ him, Monty,” Bellamy countered. “Monty, your grades hurting, too?”

“I’ll try anything once,” he said around a shrug.

“Except _sex_ ,” Murphy laughed. (Miller tensed a bit, but Monty rolled his eyes good-naturedly.)

A teacher yelled for them to hurry up, and they doubled their pace.

“Bellamy will love it, won’t you?” Miller said with a wink. Bellamy furrowed his brow. “It’ll help you get Clarke.”

Bellamy paused, his heart rate picking up a bit at the mention of her name, and he asked,“Why?”

“Because women _swoon_.”

Bellamy laughed, and they all tumbled in the door, the teacher giving them a disapproving glare.

(That night, on his desk, Bellamy found a battered book of poetry, with the words, To be read at the opening of the Dead Poets Society scribbled on the first page.)

(Bellamy grinned.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I hope you all like this chapter! The next one features some more Bellarke for my trash-y trash heart, so stay tuned. :-)


	4. Chapter 4

It was later, after their (minimal at best) free time had been spent and the boys had been ushered into their evening study hall, that the planning began.

“Cut that racket down!” their supervising teacher bellowed, eyeing the boys suspiciously, and they turned their murmurs softer.

Bellamy moved back from the throng of the boys back towards Lincoln, who was sitting alone at the table, staring at (but not truly _seeing_ ) his chemistry textbook.

“You in tonight?” Bellamy asked in a whisper, and Lincoln shrugged, his stomach knotted. (Feigned indifference was better than the truth, than the reality, and so he forced his most stern, stoic expression onto his face.)

“God,” Bellamy muttered, and there was so much distaste in his voice that Lincoln felt vaguely guilty, although he had no idea why. “ _Nothing_ Mr. Kane has said means _anything_ to you, does it?”

Lincoln turned fully towards Bellamy with a clenched jaw. His eyes flashed, because, _okay, that was enough_ , and he said firmly (but quietly, because, well - the professor was still staring at them), “That’s not it at all, so don’t act like you know me.” He paused, sighing a bit, and slumped forward towards his textbook. “It’s just... Kane said you had to read, and... and I don’t want to do that.” When Bellamy didn’t respond, Lincoln looked up, and caught the pensive gleam in his eye, literally watched as the understanding flowed over him, and Bellamy’s lips twitched downwards slightly in concern.

“You really have a problem with that, don’t you? The... the public speaking thing.”

“It’s not a problem,” Lincoln grumbled, but they both knew it was a lost cause.

“What if you didn’t have to read? What if you just came and listened?” he pressed.

And then suddenly Bellamy’s face lit up, and Lincoln opened his mouth to stop him, but he shook his head and stated, “Give me a second.”

“Bell - _fuck_ -”

Bellamy ran back to the small group of boys, and one murmur was a bit too loud, causing the professor to look up from his book once again. “I said quiet!”

But it didn’t matter. What was done was done, and Bellamy hastened back over to where Lincoln was sitting, clapping him on the back genially and attempting to bite back his cocky grin, and whispered, “You’re in.” Lincoln gave him an irritated look as the bell dismissed them, officially, for the day, but he couldn’t help the faint smile that threatened to break across his face.

(For once he was _in_ somewhere, and it felt _good_.)

* * *

 

They snuck out in the dead of night.

It was well past midnight by the time the corridor was _truly_ quiet (the room advisors all thought the boys were asleep before then, but the boys knew better - you could hear it in the slight rumblings, in the faint haze of smoke from beneath the doors), and the boys shrugged on their black robes, hoods tossed on top of their heads, and the guard dog at the stairs barked once before scarfing down the treats that Monty threw down to him. They slipped between the wood doors of the great hall, and each winced at the soft creaking. They took off across the field, tripping over their own feet and looking back every now and then, hoods falling down as they disappeared into the darkness. The boys traipsed through the woods, loosely following Bellamy (who _claimed_ to know where they were headed, but had passed the same tree three times already), until Murphy yelled, “Boo!” and Monty screamed, and around a laugh that was choking his words, he called, “Guys, it’s over here!”

 

They all followed Murphy through the cave's entrance. 

(Jasper tried to start a fire in the middle of a _fucking cave_ , for some ungodly reason, which failed almost immediately.)

Each boy contributed something to a center pile - food, smokes, whatever they had managed to scrounge up. (“Who the _fuck_ only gave us half a roll?” “I’m eating the other half!”) They read from the book Mr. Kane had left for Bellamy, and Murphy read an _original_ poem, and Finn attempted to terrify them with scary stories that they had all heard a thousand times before, and Monty got up to perform some sort of weird chant that had them all dancing and clapping and laughing (when was the last time that had happened, all of them happy and laughing and having _fun_?)

They returned to their rooms just after two o’clock in the morning, and they were miserable in class all day, but it was fucking _worth_ it.

 

(The Dead Poets Society had officially been reinstated.) 

* * *

 

“Do you want to know why I’m up here?” Mr. Kane asked in their next class from atop his desk.

“To feel taller?” Murphy called, and the boys laughed.

“Nice try, but _no_ ,” Kane retorted drily. “To see the world _differently_ , to gain a new perspective. From up here - things can be seen in a new light.” He hopped down, gesturing for the boys to stand up and come to the front. “Now you all try! One at a time, now. And don’t just jump right down - look around you!”

The boys obeyed, smiling a bit as they did so, and as the bell rang Mr. Kane began walking out of the classroom, calling behind him, “For homework this weekend, you have to write an _original_ piece, to be performed in class on Monday. Oh, and Lincoln?” The boy in question stumbled on top of the desk, eyes wide. “Don’t think I don’t know this assignment scares the _hell_ out of you.”

All the boys laughed, and Lincoln groaned, jumping from the desk and half-heartedly slapping Jasper as he knocked his shoulder.

* * *

 

It was Friday night, and the boys were in varying states of excitement: Monty and Jasper shouting and dancing in victory because their radio ( _the science project_ )   _worked_ , which was amazing; Murphy and Miller had crew practice; and Finn was practicing fencing with another friend.

And where was Bellamy?

(Off being “a fucking moron,” as per Miller’s words, although they had been said with a grin, so, like, Bellamy didn’t take them very seriously.)

(Even though, rationally, he knew that’s exactly what he was being.)

Because it was a Friday night, and he was at a fucking _football_ game - not even attending it, mind you, just _there_ \- watching her.

(She was _beautiful_. Like, absurdly so.)

She was wearing a cheerleading uniform, her hair curled in perfect ringlets that fell across her shoulders and back, with the top of it pulled into a half-ponytail that was tied off with a ribbon. She was smiling widely (it was mostly real, he noticed, as she laughed with another girl with olive skin and dark hair), and she looked radiant in the dying evening sun.

He put his foot down to stop his bike, his eyes latching onto her, unable to look away. Until a tall, dark-skinned boy with a football jersey on sidled up behind her, pressing a kiss to her hair and she tilted her head backwards to smile at him, and Bellamy felt his stomach drop.

(He didn’t know her. This was ridiculous.)

(He _was_ being a fucking moron.)

(He caught the far end of her laugh, a melodic, _beautiful_ thing, and the sun glinted off of her hair and cast her in a halo of golden orange light, and he didn’t really care.)

The boys and the cheerleaders (with _Clarke_ ) filed into the school bus behind them, and Bellamy watched it go, and he cussed at himself, because he was _so_ fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a pleasure to write! (God, my Bellarke heart is the WooOooOooRST). One of my favorite scenes from the movie is coming up in the next chapter, so be on the lookout!

**Author's Note:**

> So here is the first installment! I haven't really decided how many chapters there are going to be quite yet (just have to see where the muse goes, I guess.) Please let me know your thoughts (or come talk to me at griffenly.tumblr.com)!


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